


Whatever You Wish For, You Keep

by katiecorn



Category: Star Wars (Marvel Comics), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Fix-it fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 18:35:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18597082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiecorn/pseuds/katiecorn
Summary: Her name is Daaé. And she deserved better.A fix-it fic for anyone disappointed with the comic "Star Wars: Vader - Dark Visions #3."





	Whatever You Wish For, You Keep

Garbage.  
  
That's what she is.  
  
That's _where_ she is, sunken down in the muddy waters of the garbage chute, carrion for the scavengers. She can feel a Dianoga wrapped around her mouth and throat. Any moment now it'll strangle the last bit of life from her lungs, but for now she simply... floats.  
  
Vaguely, distantly, it occurs to her that she can breathe. The cold, stringent scent of bacta fills her nose, not the rank stench of sewage.  
  
She blinks and regrets it immediately. The lights of the medbay are too bright, too harsh.  
  
The medbay!  
  
Hope stretches her lungs to capacity, and for a moment the sheer thrill of being alive is stronger and sharper than the pain between her ribs.  
  
That's right—she was stabbed. She was stabbed, and now she's in a bacta tank. Lord Vader—  
  
Lord Vader—  
  
She slips into unconsciousness.

 

* * *

  
  
She dreams of Naboo. The clear water. The bright, blue sky.  
  
She's a little girl again, running along the shore, the hem of her skirt soaking wet. Her friends laugh and shriek from their picnic blanket.  
  
"She's going to do it!"  
  
"Don't! You'll ruin your dress!"  
  
She plunges into the waves. Dives down, down, down, much further than she ought, so far she won't have enough air to reach the surface. There's supposed to be a city here. An underwater city made of light. She swivels this way and that, searching, hoping, but finds only darkness.  
  
More laughter when she returns to shore, limbs heavy, chest heaving. She collapses at the edge of the picnic blanket and savors each hard-earned breath.

Her dress will never recover. It’s more mud now than fabric.  
  
"Why'd you do that?"  
  
"I dunno," she shrugs. "I really wanted to see a Gungan."  
  
"Wanted to kiss one, you mean."  
  
A playful grin is her only reply.

 

* * *

  
  
_Broken ribs — Temporary._  
  
_Reduced lung capacity — Permanent._  
  
The droid attending her is cold and indifferent. Not professional, just… Imperial. It doesn't seem to know that she's a medical officer, because it describes her injuries in the simplest of terms, and ignores her questions about dosages. It only chirps its qualifications at her and moves on to the next patient.  
  
She sleeps in a proper bed now. It's not exactly an upgrade from the bacta tank—the sheets are too stiff and the pillows are little better than ration wafers—but at least it's dry.  
  
There's a bracelet around her wrist, with a series of numbers and letters where her name should be. She blinks at it again and again, convinced it's a trick of her mind. But the letters will not rearrange themselves. They won't form her name.

 

* * *

  
  
Things will get better.  
  
Other patients struggle to see it. Patients who have lost more than lung capacity. Patients who clamor for sleeptabs to ease their suffering, and even more who would rather not wake up at all.  
  
But she prefers the waking world. When she sleeps, her dreams drift beyond her control, wild and free, frightening and fascinating. She sees family long dead and friends long lost. Lovers with sad eyes and soft hands and flaming swords.

When she's awake, she can control her dreams. She makes up stories in her head about the other patients, the doctors, the droid who administers her dosages. The medicine makes her dizzy. The exercises make her vomit. All she has to do is cross the room unaided, but her lungs won't fill all the way. She’s always underwater, always struggling to keep her head above the surface, always grateful for just one more breath.

One more breath. One more step.

When she reaches the other side of the room, she’s allowed to sit and collect herself. She feels as she did at the edge of that picnic blanket, limbs heavy, chest heavy. Gown soaked through with sweat.

Her mind wanders to the shores of Naboo. The lost cities beneath the waves. It’s easier to breathe, somehow.

 

* * *

  
  
An officer in a sharp, crisp uniform circles the medbay. A new face. A new story.  
  
She immediately decides that this officer is in love with the medical chief. The supply closet is their secret meeting place.  
  
The officer stops at every bedside before at last reaching hers. He doesn't sit. Simply checks the bracelet at her wrist and taps a datapad.  
  
"Name?" the officer asks.  
  
She tries to answer. The word won't come. The letters still won't rearrange themselves.  
  
"No name?"  
  
Her mouth moves. No sound comes out. The phrase _Mentally Disoriented_ is added to her bracelet.

 

* * *

  
  
At last, she's well enough for reassignment. She still has to wear the bracelet, but at least she's back in a uniform. She admires herself in the mirror, twisting left and right to examine all sides. Imperial fashion hardly warrants the word, but she smiles at how it cinches at the waist.

She almost feels normal.

She almost feels pretty.  
  
The officer who asked her name hands her a small datapad. On its surface, the location of her new living quarters and job title.  
  
_SANITATION_.  
  
She's going right back into the garbage.

 

* * *

  
  
The work is easy. She doesn't mind it. Not really. Most of the time her body seems to do the job on its own, leaving her mind free to wander.  
  
She starts a new collection. Just little pieces of junk, anything shiny or interesting she finds in the trash. She slips them into her jumpsuit and then—after her shift is done and lights are out—hides them under her bunk.  
  
Laying there, wide-eyed in the dark, a dozen rusted trinkets beneath her back, she imagines pirates. Smugglers. Rebellion heroes. They storm the Death Star and whisk her away into a new life, a new adventure.  
  
She thinks of the pretty boys from Naboo, the poets and painters. Sometimes, in her mind, she poses for their artwork, in varying states of dress. She is their muse. A goddess of love and inspiration.  
  
She imagines a Grand Moff taking notice of her. A woman so beautiful shouldn't be sweeping floors! She should wear the finest dresses, attend all the fanciest parties! Come, churl, pour my lady a glass of Coruscanti wine!  
  
Sometimes...  
  
Sometimes she stills thinks about Lord Vader. He comes to her on bended knee. Apologizes for acting so brutishly. Begs for her forgiveness.  
  
The place between her ribs stings with memory. He takes her hand and promises to never hurt her again.  
  
Alone in the dark, she cries and cries and cries.

 

* * *

  
  
It's not getting any better.  
  
It's not getting any easier.  
  
Rescue never comes. Rebellion never comes. Pirates never storm the Death Star. Smugglers never carry her away.  
  
She dreams about rescuing herself. When her eyes are shut and when they open again, she sees herself becoming a Rebellion leader, a beacon of hope in the darkest of places.  
  
Sometimes, she burns the Empire to the ground.  
  
Sometimes, she takes its throne for herself.  
  
But she never does. She's too small. Too afraid. She has no power. What can she do against an Empire? What can she do in a place so hopeless? How can she escape a place so cruel?  
  
She can dream.  
  
She can hang on.  
  
One more day.  
  
One more step. One more floor to sweep. One more daydream.  
  
Then another.  
  
Then another.  
  
One more step. One more. Keep dreaming.  
  
It'll get better.  
  
It has to get better.

 

* * *

  
  
Chaos. The Death Star—the new one, the second one—is collapsing. The Rebellion fleet has broken through.  
  
No one notices a sanitation worker running for the escape pods.

 

* * *

  
  
They say Vader died in fire. That underneath his armor was a flaming skeleton, and in his last moment smoke billowed out of his mask until there was nothing left but ash.  
  
He was only ever a monster.

 

* * *

 

She walks and walks and walks until she finds an ocean. Standing at its edge, she looks out across the crashing waves. The remains of the Death Star rise out of it like a lost city. Like the ruins of an ancient culture.

She sits at shore and breathes deep. Her hair is damp with salt spray.  
  
Someone calls to her.  
  
"Hey! Girl! You alright?"  
  
She turns. She speaks, but her voice cracks. She swallows and tries again.  
  
"Daaé," she says.  
  
"What?"  
  
She places a hand between her ribs.  
  
"My name is Daaé."

**Author's Note:**

> No matter how your heart is grieving,  
> if you keep on believing,  
> the dream that you wish  
> will come true.
> 
> *
> 
> After I read "Star Wars: Vader - Dark Visions #3," I was... upset, to say the least. The comic seemed to me a rather cruel mockery of fangirls who use fantasies as escapist fiction, parodying our interests and desires without bothering to examine WHY such tropes resonate with so many female fans. Luckily, my fellow Star Wars fans on Twitter were quick to reclaim this unnamed medic, and even started calling her "Daaé," in honor of Christine Daaé from The Phantom of the Opera. A thousand headcanons immediately exploded in my mind; with a name like Daaé, she must be from Naboo! I had to write about her.
> 
> Though this story is very brief, it was important for me to show that even after Vader ran her through, Daaé never stopped dreaming. She never let go of her fantasies. Sometimes... Sometimes, we're not strong enough to fight back. Sometimes, it's enough just to survive. And if your dreams, your fantasies, help you take just one more step, then that's nothing but admirable. I'm so immensely proud of you. Your dreams are beautiful, and so are you.


End file.
